


Soon as the Storm

by ArtemisClydeFrogge



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Barebacking, Choking, Christmas, Christmas Smut, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Manipulation, Escapism, Filth, Finger Sucking, Fucking, I am so sorry, Incest, M/M, Merry fucking Christmas, Mildly Dubious Consent, Modern AU, Non-Consensual Spanking, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Rimming, Sibling Incest, Smut, Spanking, Unhealthy Relationships, folgers commercial genre, get ready, major kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 20:16:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9089074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisClydeFrogge/pseuds/ArtemisClydeFrogge
Summary: Armitage, 22, is home for Christmas. Bren, 19, thinks he's his present.He's not wrong.(In which Armie is tested, and fails spectacularly.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> tfw ur about to post something you reeeeally can't take back

 

Dinner had been its usual, barely-restrained madness.

Their father had sat at the head of the table, three full feet from Armitage and Brendol, who sat across from one another. At the table's other end, Brendol's mother, an ethereal and appropriately stationed society woman, sat with a fan, absentmindedly opening and closing it while she ate next to nothing from the yearly Christmas spread.

Armitage's mother had been transferred to another household years ago, and unless he went into his father's study, broke the _very_ locked file cabinet, and somehow found the correct record, he was not likely to see her again.

He ate with the utmost care, spilling a single drop or eating with even a single measure of sloppiness was unacceptable. In a similar state of care, Brendol- Bren- ate across from him like a mouse, small bites from small portions. His hair was brushed smooth behind his ears.

“How has the year been over at First Order?” their father, Brendol the first, asked this without looking up from his food- the better part of a steak and potato dinner than Armitage could barely stomach the smell of.

“Satisfactory, sir, thank you,” Armitage rested his flatware on the edges of the fine plate and grasped the glass of wine at his right. His second. Bren and Carissa were both on their third, like mother like son, though neither of them showed outward signs of disaster. Silence reigned.

“When are you going to cut that hair?” Brendol finally sniped to his legitimate son.

Carissa sat up with her shoulders back and her neck long, snapping, “Let him alone, it's a comfort he well deserves.”

“He looks ridiculous, none of the other boys at that preparatory school wear their hair like that, like- like loose-goose republic peaceniks!”

“We already agreed, it's if his grades fall. He has all straight As, now haven't you, darling?” Carissa slid her hand toward her son, but he was three feet too far from her reach.

Bren nodded, laying his fork down and looking down. Armitage wanted to flip the table. After a moment, their father went back to his bad mood in quiet, eating with aggressive, warning bites. When Carissa let the butler refill her glass for the fourth time, Armitage felt a foot on his ankle, sliding very slow and careful over his boot. Like a trained dancer, Bren's upper body betrayed no movement.

Armitage breathed in, as measured as he could manage.

His cock stirred, regardless.

There was no signal he could give to dissuade Bren. Armitage looked up at him, hands resting, poised, on his silverware. He narrowed his eyes in a half-glare, tried to shake his head _no_ in millimeters, but Bren only smiled, shoulders tight, and refused to make eye contact. Instead, Armitage felt the socked foot creep up to his shin bone and drag lightly down to where his boots were laced to militant perfection.

He had to look away. Bren was rosy cheeked, but in the dinner lighting it could be explained in the single indulgence Brendol the first allowed: alcohol. If decorum was maintained, the wine would flow.

He pretended not to see Bren pick up his wine glass, lick his lips.

* * *

 

  
Brendol the first addressed them as a unit while he waited for his wife to emerge from refreshing her makeup and changing her dress. They were going to the opera, a time honored tradition for the last decade at least.

“I have released the staff for the evening, as is customary on Christmas eve. There will be no shenanigans or nonsense, I trust.”

“No, sir,” the half-brothers echoed one another. Bren was aware, in a stifling way, of how close Armitage's shoulder was to his own. Thin layers of fabric apart, that was all. He itched.

Brendol's face took on a more charitable expression and he clasped his hands behind himself, appearing proud of their joined stature, “Frankly I am impressed by the reviews I have received from your instructors, the both of you. I am confident that this upcoming year will only reflect yet more brightly on the Hux name.”

“Yes, sir,” Bren leaned into a bit of a bow, while Armitage gave a salute.

It earned them a laugh, though it was thin. “The liquor cabinet is unlocked this year. I encourage you both to sample the Camus Elegance on the middle shelf. It is toward the right hand side, and you've both earned it. I expect great things from you both.”

Bren gave a sidelong glance to Armie while their father turned away. _Even your 'illegitimate' offspring?_

His mother was then descending the elaborate staircase, where, scratched into the underside of the left railing, were their names. Armitage had carved them with the pocket knife he had received as a present, on his first Christmas back from the military school. Bren had sat close beside, his head resting on Armitage's back while he worked.

“Boys,” she said, demure, before taking her husband's arm. She was high, now, on something; distant and goddess-like, floating on an escapist haze that everyone had the good sense and civility to ignore.

As soon as the heavy door rang shut, Armitage spun on his heel and fled.

 

* * *

 

 

Ten minutes later, the door to the study opened, smooth on its brass hinges. Bren slipped in like a secret, which he was. Armitage regarded him from their father's chair, slouched and legs spread wide. The brandy was catching in the light, deep copper and rolling in the glass around a handful of ice cubes.

Bren's hair was up in a ponytail. Armitage's favorite. The younger stopped beside the desk, trailing his hand along its mahogany edge. Mahogany. Fucking _tragic_. He asked, doe-eyed while he brought his hand back, “Does it taste good?”

“It burns,” the older hummed, staring. His heart was trying to creep up his throat.

“Show me,” Bren hummed back, swinging smooth and strangely graceful into Armitage's lap, comfortable between his legs. His long arms went around his older brother's neck, warm and familiar. Armitage's high-collared school shirt was undone to the middle of his chest; his skin was a shade, maybe two, darker, from drills outside, probably. Bren knew how much sunscreen he used.

“Bren,” the other warned, or, tried to warn; his brother only wormed closer and guided the glass to Armitage's lips.

“Show me.”

Like a puppet, Armitage raised the glass to his lips and sipped; Bren watched, eyes dilated and powerful. With his free hand he brought the other young man forward, sliding his fingers around the base of the pony tail. Bren went willingly, opening his mouth when their lips connected and drawing what he could of the brandy out from between Armitage's teeth. He managed and shuddered, moaning. A line of it went sliding down Armitage's chin and neck, snaking down his collar bone and blooming against the edge of his undershirt. Before he could make a token effort to push Bren away, in hopes he would be satisfied, the other was leaning in and lapping it up like a whore.

“Oh, god,” Armitage groaned weakly, hand still on the back of Bren's head. When his brother rose, he had Armitage's dog tags sucked halfway into his mouth, like a taddy.

“I miss you so much when you're gone,” he mumbled around the tags. Armitage watched his brother's tongue roll around the beads, and the tags slid down the chain. Bren grasped them in one hand and tugged. “I wish he wouldn't send you away.”

“I miss you, too... Bren. We. Really shouldn't... be doing this. You should stop,” his head was thick with fog and temptation, and in spite of his words he felt his free hand slide down to rest on Bren's warm hip. He had changed into the silky-thin lounge pants that Armitage loved. He felt no line indicating underthings.

“Don't tell me what to do,” Bren said, convivial, and leaned down to kiss Armitage properly. His mouth was sticky with spilled brandy, hot. He licked in and met no resistance, heard the glass from their father's overpriced collection _clack_ against the table. Armitage shoved his newly free hand directly underneath Bren's shirt- _his_ shirt, stolen from his room. A First Order tech tee, old and washed to fading. His head spun; they weren't supposed to be doing this anymore. Ever. They should have never done it in the first place, he _knew_ that.

But.

Bren's soft stomach and smooth ribs. His pale neck and narrow shoulders, so much like Armitage's own. Too much. They were like twins, somehow, three years apart, but so alike. Willowy and tall, strong only with hard work, never large. Armitage was proof of this, and he knew Bren liked it by the way his long fingers gripped into the defining lines of his shoulders. He doubted Bren could even do a pull-up.

They kissed until Bren decided they were done. Everywhere else, he let their father, his mother, his instructors, whomever, make the decisions. Call the shots. He let Armitage direct him, too, in all other ways. He kept his head down, exhausted always by the pressure and inanity of his life, of the expectations he did not ask for. He was nervous and sweet by nature, often anxious. Armitage wanted to sweep him away, safe from their father and the completely insane, violently unlikely, attempts to mold him into the heir the Hux family demanded. Here, though, he took the reins, and his Armie let him. Armie would walk into hell for him, he knew.

Armitage's chest was heaving, matching the wild pace Bren had set. His hand curled, convulsive, around Bren's hip. He rocked, barely, against his own pants, close to Bren's thigh. He didn't want this. He very much wanted it. He wanted the best for Bren, and this could not be it.

“Bren-”

“Armitage Elan Hux,” the other interrupted, beginning to unbutton the rest of Armie's crisp-black regulation shirt. Armie's hair was coming un-gelled, long strands slipping and framing his face, his incredible cheek bones. Bren leaned forward and sucked a bitter strand into his mouth. He let it go and muttered, “I love you, Armie.”

Helpless, Armitage agreed, “I love you, too.”

“You do?”

His shirt was open, the brandy-stained undershirt on display. He could see his nipples pushing the fabric out of shape. He looked up, catching Bren's blue-eyed gaze and holding it. “Brendol Mercy Hux, I love you. I would set the world on fire for you.”

Bren grabbed his dog tags again, this time pulling them sharp and taut against the back of Armitage's neck. “You don't belong to them. You belong to me.”

“Yes,” the older nodded, squeezing Bren closer, heart hammering. This was not like the half-drunk fumbling of year's past. This was wholly dangerous, unlimited in its scope. Mutually assured destruction. He wanted it. “Yes, of course.”

“Only me.”

“Only you,” Armitage wrapped both hands around Bren's neck, squeezing gently. “You're the only one. You're mine. You were made for me.”

“Harder,” Bren whispered, eyelids shuttering as he grabbed Armitage's undershirt and pulled.

Armie spread pressure across his palms, threading his fingers together behind Bren's soft neck, closing over the bones of his spine. He pressed and pressed, careful, watching, his dick throbbed as he saw blood, red and bright, fill his brother's cheeks and lips.

Bren wished he had straddled Armie to begin with; sitting side saddle between his legs was getting him nowhere, but there were _rules_. He let go of the shirt, feeling light-headed and free, and went for Armitage's trousers.

“No, you wait,” Armitage ground out, shaking him slightly. “Not here.”

Just when crackles of glittering dots began to swim at the edge of his vision, Armitage released him. He swooned slightly, letting his forehead droop to Armitage's shoulder. His older brother ran his hands up and down his back, soothing. He heard him grab the Camus Elegance and then felt him tip its remainder back and gone. A little shudder beneath him.

“Please,” he whispered.

“Please what?”

“Don't leave me,” he huffed, curling his hands back into Armitage's shirt. “He doesn't understand like you do. How could he? He's... so fucking stupid.” A pause and then, “I want you to be my daddy, instead.”

Armitage felt his heart palpitate in horror and sick fascination. In interest. He held on to the back of Bren's neck and breathed, “You're so fucked up...”

“Fix me, then,” Bren mouthed a wet kiss along his shoulder, breathing fast.

Abrupt, in concentration, Armie pushed and caught at him, standing. “Jump,” he whispered. Bren obeyed, wrapping his legs around Armitage's hips and rolling close. Armie was hard, too, straining against those strangely flattering standard issue pants. He wanted it.

Armitage kissed him, almost feverishly, while he carried him, to Bren's unending delight. Armie was slight, too; as children they had looked like little waifs, rescued from some vintage Oliver Twist daydream. But Armie was getting strong at military school, and this would be his last year.

Bren dreamt of having his strength beside him all the time, forever.

At the stairs, Armie let him slip down, vaguely unsteady from drink, and not as strong as all that to go up stairs with his own body weight hanging from his chest. It was a nice feeling, though, when Bren rubbed as he went, pushing his dick against the bulge that had begun to _ache_ with interest. Bren pushed him against the wall and kept at his lips, his tongue, whining in the back of his throat like a spoiled child.

Scattered, desperate, they hauled each other up the stairs and burst into Armitage's rarely-used room. His rucksack was still on the floor by the writing desk, untouched from arriving and being forced straightaway into socializing. He kicked at it while he ripped himself out of the unbuttoned overshirt. There weren't enough days in that bag, there never were.

Bren pulled his tee shirt off, his hair reacting very slightly to the static, his ponytail swinging, not overlong, but long enough. Armitage wanted to grab it. “How many nights do you sleep in here?”

“Holidays, your birthday. Whenever they won't be here, Armie. Whenever I can't get off on my own,” Bren sat on the bed and spread his legs, inviting. The outline of his cock was full and flush through the lounge pants, gorgeous. “Do you think of me over there?”

“All the time-” the older sat in the leather desk chair and gripped the arms. “-Take care of these,” he indicated his boots with a barely constructed aloofness. He knew Bren could see through him. He ran his hand through his hair, through the cheek-length strands that regulation allowed for, so long that they were gelled back. There were only a few accepted styles, and this was as close to keeping it long enough for his brother to tug as he could get away with. It was fine. He liked it short. Bren could have the ponytails and the braids and the fan of red across a pillow while he was fucked into complacency and release.

Bren slid to the floor, eager, and crawled forward. He was fast, untying the knots and loosening the strings; in between the loosening and the removing he bent to lick the leather, sucking on the instep and pausing to gaze up at Armitage, fearless and sick with adoration. Armitage reached down, cupped Bren's face, “Oh, you're so good, look at you. Who wouldn't miss you? Who wouldn't want you on your knees beside them, always?”

“Armie,” the younger groaned, lips shining and eyes wet.

“Back on the bed. On your cute little tummy."

Bren scrambled, without a trace of self-consciousness. Armitage removed his belt and unsnapped his trousers, for ease when he wanted them off. Until then, he wanted Bren naked first.

As soon as he was settled on the mattress, he kissed the bottom of Bren's spine, running his hands up his soft sides. He was covered all over by a nice layer of _squish_ , amazing for squeezing, for slapping. Dragging his hands back down, he hooked his fingers in the waistband of the lounge pants and pulled them back, over and past the pale swell of Bren's ass. He heard a whisper or weak whine that might have been his name, but it was difficult to say; he was so hyper-focused, swimming now more earnestly with the alcohol having had time to reach his blood.

“Hands where I can see them,” he mumbled, somehow still with authority. He had the upper hand for now, but there was no telling when Bren would take it back. When he did, Armitage knew he would let it happen, and love it.

Bren brought his beautiful, capable hands out from under himself, huffing and moaning as Armitage breathed against his back, and pushed them up the bed, knocking the pillows to the floor. He arched his spine, pushing toward his older brother, shameless. Armitage kept pulling, the pants catching and then releasing Bren's dick; when they were pooled around his knees, the older of the two leaned in and licked, from sac to tailbone. The taste was halfway between skin and soap, and Armitage grinned, stomach turning with arousal.

“You got yourself ready. Why do you always think you're going to get your way?”

“Armie,” Bren pressed himself closer, arching his back, “Don't I deserve it?”

Armitage responded by spreading his brother wide and spreading his tongue all across the waiting hole, licking and pressing and teasing, while his thumbs bit into the reddening skin. Bren babbled on: “I've been so good, I wait for you. I'm good for you, right, Armie? Just for you, only... _Ooooh_ , Armie, just you, please, don't stop...!”

Armitage ignored him, suddenly smiling too wide to keep up the attention. He wanted more from Bren.

Bren wailed softly, looking ready to cry as he peered over his shoulder. “Armie?”

Armitage leaned over him, pressing his front to Bren's back; he felt his dick slot perfectly against the curve of Bren's ass, ready, _more_ than ready. “You've been so good. I'm sick with wanting you. I'll go to hell for doing these things to you. They'll eat me alive down there for ruining you.”

“You can't, you couldn't,” Bren whined, dropping his forehead to the dark duvet and pushing his ass up to Armitage's crotch. “It's me, it's my fault. I don't want anyone else, Armie, I'm not ruined. I promise, _please_.”

“Yes...” Armitage rocked against him, reaching one hand back to slide his pants down his hips. It wasn't enough, not by leagues, but this excruciating back and forth was, though he craved denial, all he lived for. There was nothing better. “Shhh, it's too late, isn't it?”

Without preamble, he pushed his fingers into Bren's mouth, rolling them against the wicked wet of his tongue, reaching farther to trip his gag reflex. “I'm your daddy, now. You'll do as I say, and I'll... I'll take care of you. That's what you want, isn't it?”

Bren groaned in response, pulling his elbows in to leverage himself closer; he almost began to speak, but choked on the fingers that still squirmed toward his throat.

“Shhh, I know,” Armitage sat up, rubbing himself against the wet line he had left behind. The front of his underthings were damp, and when he let himself think about it, his cock almost _hurt_. He never felt like this at First Order. A few times a month he would orchestrate the privacy needed to get himself off in the shower or the woods, but it was only due course. Giving in to hormonal urges that rarely came from particular external stimuli. The number of times he had cum in his hand to images that were uncomfortably similar to his own face was embarrassing, wrong. _Incredibly_ wrong. And yet. Here he was trailing his fingers down to his little brother's hole, heart dropped into his stomach, ear tuned to the house for any hint their father or a staff member might return.

His beautiful, beautiful brother. The ponytail dangled back and forth across his long neck, brushing against the scattered freckles there that in no way matched his own. Why were they like this?

He pushed inward, two fingers at once, slow and easy. Bren groaned and pushed back, shaking. “Yes, yes, _yes_...” he chanted, as though he needed to encourage Armitage further. He had already gotten his way. He always did. Bren was warm around his fingers- searing, in a way. He gasped at the way Bren squeezed around him, thinking of getting inside, of letting loose in there, taking everything he wanted.

“Greedy. Sucking me in. What else will you take?” Armitage leaned down, scooting backward to get back at Bren's wet rim. He shoved his tongue between his two fingers, widening the entrance and dribbling spit down his chin. Bren sucked in a gasping mouthful of air and trembled; this was all so much more intense than the hasty, guilty trysts that they had performed before, in the dark, quiet.

“ _Please_ , Armie, please, I'm- I want you so much, please,” Bren had never sounded more pathetic. Armitage wanted to destroy him, down to nothing, then build him back up from scratch, all his own. He withdrew, wiping his hand on his pants and relishing the defilement of them. “You know where it is. Get it.”

Bren sighed in relief and squirmed away, to the bedside table. As Bren went he wriggled out of his pajamas, and Armitage heaved his tank top up and over his head, throwing it into the corner of the room. Suddenly, his trousers were no longer part of a genius plan to prolong the enjoyment of this degeneracy. They were only in the way, too tight, too warm. He shucked them down his legs, so similar to Bren's, and kicked them away with vehemence. When he looked back to the bed, Bren was on his back with his hand between his legs, making a mess of himself; he felt his mouth go dry watching.

“Armie,” his little brother was murmuring, pupils dilated to critical width and skin flushed, “please, please-”

“Take the ponytail out,” Armitage rumbled, holding the base of his dick and taking a deep breath. What the actual fuck was wrong with them. “Daddy wants to see all that pretty hair spread out.”

What. The actual. _Fuck_.

He crawled onto the bed, grabbing the pillow from the floor to wedge it under Bren's hips. He had obeyed immediately, again, pulling the hair tie out and flinging it out into the middle of the room. Now Armitage could see exactly what he'd fantasized about. Familiar red hair all fanned out, plenty of it sticking to Bren's neck. He took in the view, shaking his head. Bren all on display, lovely and pink and desperate to be filled. His knees tipped farther apart, welcoming.

“Oh, baby, look at you,” he spread his hands under Bren's thighs and bent him in half, leaning in to draw his sac into his mouth. He released it at Bren's caterwaul, loving the way he brought his hands to his red face, biting his finger tips. He seemed to know his own cock was off limits. He spread his left hand wide and hooked Bren's knees together, resting against his palm. He knew Bren wasn't expecting it, the hard slap that came down on his smooth upper thigh.

It was perhaps cruel.

Bren shrieked, squirmed, reached out. It was perfect. Armitage slapped him again, watching a red band rise across the pale skin. One more.

“Ah-Ah-Armie, what-” Bren shuddered, he had begun to _cry_ a little bit, from the sudden pain. “I- I-”

“Shhh, you did so good,” Armitage bent to kiss the red band, his mark. It would fade, but Bren wouldn't forget. His poor pretty dick had flagged, too startled to find the spanking arousing. “I just had to. Do you know what I mean? Just. I had to.”

“O-Okay,” the other young man nodded, back to biting his finger tips, looking on with an expression that wandered between vulnerable interest and still-needy sluttiness.

“I won't do it again without asking, promise,” he let Bren's legs down and slid between them, making himself comfortable against his little brother's soft belly and chest. He wanted to kiss him, soothe him. He braced his weight on one elbow, letting his cock line up to Bren's, still hard, still next to painful. Brushing his fingers through Bren's sweaty locks, he smiled. “You're my baby, now. You're all mine.”

Bren sniffed, “You left your tags on.”

“They're for you.”

“For me,” Bren echoed, reaching for them, dazed. His knees tightened around his brother's hips. This was everything he wanted. Even the slaps. The feel-good and the feel-bad. Having Armie all to himself. He knew, beyond all doubt, that there was no place or way for them. This was _bad_. But it was the only thing he wanted, and he would do anything for it. “You would. Set the world on fire?”

Armitage rocked carefully against him, trapped by the chain and by the perverse joy that came from being restrained so lightly, so completely. “Everything. For you.”

Bren rolled his hips and moaned; his cock swelled, spurred by the thickness that Armitage was showing off, by the red hair that tangled together down there, a matching set. He forced Armitage's free hand down to his thigh, guiding him to grip it and haul him close while they rolled, insistently, against one another. “Ohhh, yes, fuck...”

“Bren, just... _fuck_... just tell me what to do, I'll do it,” Armitage panted, resting his forehead on the other's collar bone, sweating, beginning to panic with need. “You know I will.”

Bren groaned, arching his back and tilting back his head; everything was blurry and fine, like cobwebs had been strung over all of his senses. The only real and immediate thing was Armie between his legs, was Armie's breath against his neck. He released the tags, “Fuck me, please... Daddy.”

Armitage surged up and off of him, grabbing the bottle from beside Bren's shoulder and pouring more than he needed into his right hand. Their hands were so alike, too. The same knuckles, the same fingers and palms. Bren watched, as though in a trance, as Armitage pumped the lube once, twice, over his cock, coating it all the way to the root, face dark with concentration. He looked studious. His hair was falling loose over his forehead, swaying as he nodded to himself. “Yes, fuck you, fuck you so good, baby.”

Armitage lined himself up, desperate but gentle as he eased forward. They hadn't spent all that much time on preparing, not really, but everything was so slick, and Bren was so relaxed as Armitage finally pushed in. Every muscle was lax beneath Armitage's hands; his brother was like a ragdoll, limp, eyes closed, smiling sweetly to himself. “Baby, yes, jesus, how tight you are... taking my cock so well, aren't you?”

“Daddy,” Bren sighed, still lost in his own world.

Armitage rolled in, gasping, as his cock disappeared inside his brother's grasping hole. He took a deep breath through his nose, hanging on a precipice where he feared he may come just from the sight, from the initial, welcoming, hold. “So good, my baby.”

He ran his hands up to Bren's chest, then back down to his hips, dragging his brother closer. Bren pushed up and sighed, one hand stretching up to the headboard, the other going back to his mouth, back to biting his fingertips while he moaned. Armitage shuddered, overwhelmed by how disgustingly gorgeous Bren was, how beautifully he squirmed on Armitage's cock. His own dick tapped a continual rhythm against his sweet belly, leaking, red as roses. Armitage dug his fingertips into the softness around Bren's hip bones and hauled him, hard, onto his prick; predictably, Bren tensed and gasped, a long row of _ah ah ahs_ falling past his tongue.

“Oh, _look_ , at you. So pretty, you're so pretty like this,” Armitage rolled his hips, the _You're so pretty all the time_ unsaid, for now. “Look how wet you are for me.”

“Yes, yes, you make me like this, Armie, no one else,” Bren's blue eyes opened, hazy, to find Armitage's pale green ones locked on to him already.

Armitage had gone to biting one side of his lip, so hard it was going white; Bren's missive was finally _really_ sinking in, the truth of it.  He breathed, not quite a question: “Nobody else.”

Bren reached up and touched his brother's incisor, infinitely gentle, before smoothing his thumb across the flushed lips, relaxing Armitage's mouth. He whispered, “No. Nobody.”

Armitage groaned, guts coiled tight with want, with having; it was hardly unbelievable. Bren didn't go out and _make_ friends. The few he had were of the persistent and sweet kind, who could persevere past Bren's shy and frequently awkward attitude. (They would never know how he could be, safe from view, in Armitage's hold.) And if it was that much trouble for Bren to gather friends, in what world would he attract a lover? Armitage felt his head spinning, the wine and the brandy and the weight of his cock, anchoring him inside.

“Bren. Baby. You haven't. With anyone. With _anyone_?”

The other shook his head, hair tangling past his jaw. His eyes were shut again, relaxed even while he ground himself down on Armitage's cock, answering every controlled, disbelieving thrust with an encouraging roll of his hips. “Armie...” he sighed, passing his hands down his chest and sides, landing them on Armitage's wrists.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” he shuddered; he felt mindless, like an animal, as he thrust _hard_ into the easy, tight heat. Bren's hands were like cuffs on his wrist, possessive, and his ankles locking behind Armitage's back were no less imprisoning. He had nothing left. The part of him that had tried to resist, that had shaken his head at the dinner table, had been stripped away. There was no recovering it.

Bren had broken him down first.

He growled, slamming in and out in sharp, punishing turns. Bren was a mess, stomach shining with his own slick, lower lip bitten to bruising. “Please, please, please,” he chanted, sucking in gulps of air that seemed unable to open his lungs enough to catch his breath.

“ _No_ one-” Armitage pounded, hard enough he felt like a machine, “But me-” he wrenched one hand out from Bren's grip and clasped it, rough, around Bren's throat. His teeth ached. “Who- is your- Daddy?”

He was squeezing too hard, or hard enough, that Bren wheezed and sighed and keened. He relaxed his thumb only slightly. “Bren. Baby. Say it, you have to say it, _fuck_.”

He was going to come as soon as he heard it, he knew. Everything felt too good, too tightly wound. Bren's hand wrapped back around his wrist, the one engaged, emphatically, in narrowing his focus down to the only point between breathing and Armitage's wild green eyes.

“Y-you are- please, please Daddy, fuck me,” Bren gasped, fingers like brands on Armitage's skin. He hadn't thought he could go harder, go faster, but suddenly he was; as though Bren had unlocked some incredible monster inside of him that only needed encouragement to rise out of him and wreck everything in its path. “Oh- oh- _oh, ooooh,_ Daddy, yes, yes--”

Fuck. “Take it, god, yes, like that,” Armitage released his brother's throat, watching marks rise up and fade like teeth on his pale skin; he bent him closer, spreading his hips wider than he thought they should be able to go, “Take my dick, take every inch, _oooh_ , my baby, you're gonna make me come--”

Bren shook and wrapped both arms around Armitage's back; his cock rubbed, insistent and rough, against the harder plane of his stomach. “Yes, yes, please, please come in me, fill me up, I'll do anything, please, Armie, _please_!”

“ _Shit,_ baby _, fuuuck_ ,” he seized, back so tight he thought he would break in two; the orgasm shredded through him fast and _hard_ , in pulses too big for his body. He jammed himself as deep as could, licking the sweat from Bren's neck and positively _rutting_. “Fill you up, you're mine, you're _all mine_ ,” he shoved his hand between them and wrapped his fingers around Bren's cock. “Come for me, Bren, come on Daddy's cock--”

“Y-You're so fucked up,” Bren whimpered, fingernails scrabbling, hips pumping, _ready_.

“Fix me, then,” Armitage bit out before clamping his teeth into the fading red of Bren's neck and _sucking_.

“ _Aaaahh, aah, oh my god, oooh, my god_ ,” Bren sobbed, coming undone and apart in Armitage's arms; he hiccuped around the first deep breath he could manage, cock straining and dribbling. The mess was _spectacular_. Armitage ran his hand through the ribbons of it, tilting his hips to remind his brother _he was still there_.

“Oh, _oh_ ,” Bren trembled, knees shaking around Armitage's hips. Overstimulated and sore, he opened his mouth without thinking as soon as his brother's cum-covered fingers pressed past his lips. It was bittersweet like the wine, more salt and bitter than kind. Still, he moaned for it, satisfied. “Armie, Armie...”

“My baby,” Armitage whispered back. He brought his hand to Bren's cheek, cradling him as gently as he could manage. He couldn't believe his heart hadn't fallen out of his chest.

“I want a shower, in a little bit,” Bren's eyelids fluttered closed, pale red eyebrows frowning for a moment as he wiggled on Armitage's softening cock.

“Okay,” the older whispered, brushing his five o'clock shadow across Bren's collar bones. This boy belonged to him. No one else. “I'll clean you up like new.”

“When you go away again- Armie.”

“One more year, Bren...” he looked up, startled by the intensity of Bren's sudden gaze.

“When you come back, where are you going to go- after?”

Armitage settled against Bren's chest, chasing the sound of his brother's heartbeat. He melted into Bren's touch, lithe hands running through his hair, arranging the strands just so. “Wherever you want to go, Bren. Anywhere.”

“I have two more years of school...” Bren took a deep breath, pulling Armitage closer even as his limbs trembled in aftershocks. “Make him pay for it.”

“Make him pay,” Armitage agreed, stroking his hand along Bren's soft side, past his ribs and the curve of his belly. They would have a shower. Another glass of wine. “I've saved every penny he's ever thrown at me.”

“Me, too.”

“I'll withdraw it all, close the accounts. Change my name. Bren. I'll steal you away. To Wales. Baby, how about Wales?”

Bren rocked him gently, kissed the top of his head. He was breathing fast, nodding. “Yes, please, anything.”

“I'll marry you.”

“You can't do that,” Bren sighed, giggled, letting his head drop back to the pillows. His hair was flung out like a halo, filthy and sweet.

Armitage reeled up to his elbow, smiling down at the wrecked and blushing face that Bren would have liked to hide, “Don't tell me what to do.”

This time, they kissed until Armitage decided they were done.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> _As soon as the storm is over_   
>  _I promise to send out for you_


End file.
